


Amoral and Divine

by tragicallydelicious



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Scott, Coda, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallydelicious/pseuds/tragicallydelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac isn't made of glass; Scott goes after what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amoral and Divine

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the hundreds of codas following episode 5.04.

The guest room isn't ready.

There are no sheets on the bed, the bulb in the lamp needs changing, and Scott's mom had offered to make it up but Isaac had said nah. He could crash on Scott's floor.

Scott is sitting at his desk, gaze kind of flitting back and forth between Isaac, who's moved a couple of feet into the bedroom now, and his mother, who's hovering in the doorway with her arms folded, forehead creased with concern.

(And Scott knows it's not just because Isaac is dripping water onto the rug, looking like he's had the worst day of his relatively short, generally shitty life, but because he's here, with Scott, and his mom likes Isaac and all, but she _loves_ Scott, and she's worried. Worried about him getting involved, because she knows what Isaac is and who he runs with.)

Scott wishes he could say something to her, anything to let her know that it's okay, that it will be okay, that he can handle this. The words don't come, though, possibly because they don't exist, so Scott just nods, slowly, at Isaac's suggestion, then clears his throat. “It's fine, Mom.” The last word is quieter than the rest, and Scott's eyes skate across the carpet.

“Well,” his mother says, pauses. “Are you going to offer your guest something to eat?”

Guest? Scott blinks. Isaac is not a guest. A guest implies invitation, and Isaac had just shown up, looking at Scott the way he does, like he's some sort of knight wielding a sword when in reality Scott is just as confused, just as tired and terrified as everyone else.

“I'm not hungry,” Isaac says, quickly, eying Scott, sidelong. “I could use a drink, though.”

“Right.” Scott blinks again. “Yeah.” And he springs into action. Get Isaac a drink, he can totally do that. He's actually getting pretty good at taking care of Isaac, except—

He's never felt anything quite like what he'd felt coming off of Isaac upstairs, spilling off his skin like raindrops, festering bitterness and a lot of fresh pain. He never learns what his mom and Isaac talk about before he returns, but his mom stops him in the hall, placing a hand on his arm. “It's bad,” she says, quietly, but not quiet enough, Scott knows. Isaac will hear them.

Scott swallows, nods, only saying, “Okay,” because he needs to go back in there, to face what's happened and try to help. To listen and possibly comfort, if that's even possible at this point. 

He sighs before pushing back into his bedroom. 

At least tomorrow is Saturday.

\--

He might have noticed his shower turning off if he wasn't so busy hating Derek.

Seriously. He's so mad. He has no idea how or why Derek could have done it, and okay, maybe. _Maybe_ it really was because of Cora, like he'd told Isaac. Maybe Derek is actually so concerned about her that he couldn't, he can't have Isaac there any—

No, really. Scott is fucking _pissed_.

What Derek had done. To Scott it sounded less like Derek was trying to keep Isaac away from his sister, so much more like he was trying to get Isaac to leave him forever. Really leave. Leave his pack.

Be an omega. Out of the loop. Not noteworthy. Nonthreatening. Nothing.

It hurts Scott to think about the closet at school and the sound of shattering glass. It twists his guts up and constricts his chest and he can't even imagine how Isaac is coping, if he's mad or sad or indifferent or resigned because they're so strange, so foreign, those emotions crackling beneath Isaac's top layer of skin. Scott swears if he looked hard enough he could see them, feel them if he dragged his fingertips down Isaac's arm. They would burn, like the sparklers Scott and Stiles used to play with when they were little, on New Years and the fourth of July.

When Isaac comes into the room, steam roiling out of the bathroom behind him, wearing a pair of borrowed sweatpants, a white towel draped around his shoulders, Scott sits up immediately, raking his fingers through his hair. There are damp patches on Isaac, dark through the sweats, but from hot shower water instead of cold rain. Scott looks at him because he thinks not looking would be worse. He doesn't want to make Isaac feel worse, so he looks. Stares, kind of, until Isaac shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“Thanks,” Isaac says. His voice is so carefully neutral that Scott narrows his gaze.

“No problem,” Scott says, and it comes out a little too casual, so he amends, “I mean, I'm glad you came. Here. I'm glad you... thought you could come here.” He shuts his mouth after that.

“You really don't mind?” Isaac glances down at the sleeping bag and pillow laid out on Scott's floor. Scott had set it up so that it wasn't quite parallel to his own bed, but on a kind of angle, Isaac's head the farthest thing from Scott.

Scott shakes his own, emphatically.

“No,” he says, quick. “Not at all.”

“I would have pitched a tent somewhere,” Isaac continues. His eyes meet Scott's again. They look a little vacant, Scott thinks. A little dead. “But—”

“Raining,” Scott says.

“I don't own a tent.”

“Oh.”

“Can I use your laptop?”

“Hm?” Scott blinks. “Uh... sure.” Then he adds, “To shop for tents?” There's a tiny joke there, just a shred of teasing, and it lights up Isaac, infinitesimally, but Scott sees it.

“I need to send an email,” Isaac says, and Scott nods.

“Go for it.” He pauses, staring at Isaac for another long moment before Isaac finally scoffs.

“It's okay,” he says. “I'll be okay.” He's lying as hard as anyone's ever lied.

“I might pass out,” Scott says. “Wake me up if anything—”

“Sure. Thanks,” Isaac cuts in, taking the initiative and turning Scott's bedroom light off before sitting down at Scott's desk, opening his laptop, naked back facing Scott's bed. Scott lies on his side and doesn't roll over. The dull light of the laptop screen outlines Isaac, and Scott can see the tiny hairs on his arms perfectly, even at this distance. He doesn't know at what point he falls asleep, but it grabs him with claws while Isaac's hands are still moving swiftly over Scott's keyboard, his touch light, just a quiet tap tap tap.

\--

At 3:54, Scott wakes up because Isaac is making weird noises on the floor. They don't sound like sobs or anything, more like hitching breaths spiked with the occasional throaty grunt. If circumstances were different, Scott would think he was jerking off.

After about a minute, he says, soft enough to touch Isaac's ears without jarring him, “Isaac.”

“I don't understand,” Isaac replies immediately. He's still facing away from Scott, who props himself up on an elbow so he can see Isaac better. “What happened? I just don't understand,” Isaac repeats.

Scott wets his bottom lip with his tongue. “I don't either.”

“I asked him about Cora, the night we found her. It was a joke. I swear I wasn't gonna—”

“It's not your fault,” Scott says, a little louder. (Pissed, seriously.) “Even if it was, there's no excuse for what he did.”

He kind of wants to punch Derek in the face the next time he sees him. He'll at least fantasize about it a lot between now and then, and yet, somehow, he doesn't think this is about Cora at all. Only he can't wrap his head around the missing part of the story. Isaac shifts, finally facing Scott. His eyes are wet and red. Scott wishes Isaac would be angry instead of sad. Maybe he will be, later.

“This sleeping bag smells like Stiles,” Isaac says.

“Do you want the bed?”

“No.” Then, “Why do you think Deucalion let us go like that? I mean, I really thought he was gonna kill us.”

Scott swallows. “I have no idea.”

He's so sick and tired of saying that.

\--

In the morning there's toast and eggs and bacon, which somehow Scott has never been overly keen on, but which Isaac swallows in bulk, washing it down with orange juice. Scott guesses meals at Derek's had consisted mostly of frozen dinners and convenience store snacks. Or maybe Derek is a gourmet chef and Isaac just eats more than anyone with his frame has the right to. Scott's t-shirt, which Isaac wears while he waits for his own clothes to finish drying, is loose around Isaac's shoulders.

His mom had left for work, but Scott has the whole day off. He doesn't know what to suggest they do, and he's thinking, pushing eggs around on his plate when Isaac says, “I'll be out of here as soon as my clothes are done.”

“What?” Scott looks up. “Where are you going?”

Isaac's eyes lift to meet his, and he finishes chewing the mouthful of food he's been working on, swallows. He doesn't say anything, and Scott says, “If you're thinking of going after the twins, don't.”

“Don't think about it?” Isaac quirks a brow. “Or don't do it?”

“Just don't,” Scott says. “You'll get yourself killed.”

Isaac is silent for so long that Scott starts to feel breathless and shaky. “That's not funny, Isaac,” he grates out. “Anyway, Mom said you could stay, so stay. At least one more night.” Unless the alpha pack knocks on his front door, Scott doesn't plan on leaving the house today. They're as safe here as they would be anywhere, and after Isaac's last statement—or lack thereof—Scott isn't anxious to let Isaac out of his sight anytime soon. He briefly considers calling Allison, to ask if she wants to come over, hang out, then he remembers that he and Allison still don't call each other. They don't hang out.

He hasn't deleted the picture of Isaac on that bike, though. The picture Allison had sent, and the dining room feels warm. Probably from all the cooking, although that doesn't make too much sense. _Shut up, brain._

Isaac's shoulders sag, but his chin is up now, at least. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

“You don't have to keep saying that.” Scott is suddenly hungry again, and he finishes his food off quickly. “I'm gonna take a shower,” he says, once he's put the dishes in the sink and filled it with soapy water. “You can watch TV or listen to music. Whatever you want.”

“Sure,” Isaac says with a small, crooked smile that makes Scott pulse jump; it's becoming a real problem. “I've got homework, too.”

Scott nods. “I won't be long.”

It's not until he's stripping in his bedroom that he notices his laptop has gone to sleep, and he swipes his finger across the touch pad for no logical reason he can discern. He expects to see his homepage, but instead it's Isaac's email account, still logged in. Specifically, his drafts.

Scott can't help but see when he logs Isaac out that the top draft is addressed to Derek.

\--

They have a pretty fun day together, somehow, against all odds. They don't do much of anything. Once in a while their conversation strays to the alphas. The twins, mostly. But then they end up back on music or books or movies and things feel calm, almost normal, in those moments.

In those moments, Scott thinks Isaac might not be dwelling so much on yesterday, last night.

He hopes.

While Isaac takes his clothes out of the dryer, Scott makes up the guest room, not wanting Isaac to be relegated to the floor another night. Actually, he really wants Isaac to sleep in a bed, and he wonders if he'd had a bed at Derek's, or if it had been a crash on the couch situation. He's just finished putting on the fitted sheet, the other sheet and comforter (which is actually softer than Scott's own) folded on the end of the bed when Isaac appears in the doorway, holding a basket filled with precious little clothing.

He sets the basket down next to the door. “Thanks,” he says, and Scott affects a glare.

He calls Stiles around four-thirty. He talks about the non-alpha related—at least, Stiles believes that; Scott is still about fifty-fifty on the topic—murders for several minutes, yelling sometimes, breathing rarely. The sheriff had caught him looking at some files earlier and Stiles thinks he might be grounded, but his dad had run out somewhere around the middle of the fight when a call came through his police scanner. Stiles would have followed him, but he's pretty sure he'd be confined to his room for the rest of his natural life should he be caught. He's thinking of doing it anyway.

Scott tells him to call if he learns anything new, hangs up, and drops off his pullup bar, which he'd been working out on while they talked. He means to go downstairs, but finds himself outside the guest room door instead. Isaac is cross-legged on the freshly made bed, the book Ms. Blake has them reading open on his lap. He looks up when Scott comes in. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Scott sits on the edge of the bed, and Isaac arches a shapely eyebrow. “What's up?”

Isaac laughs a little, and Scott wants to laugh, too, but he sort of feels sick. Actually, no. Not sick. But his stomach is definitely doing something weird and his chest is all tight. He rolls his shoulders and it doesn't help. Isaac says, “Pretty much the same thing that was up the last time you asked.” He looks at the clock on the nightstand. “Twenty minutes ago.”

“Mm.” Scott doesn't remember doing that, but he flushes anyway, and Isaac's eyes get big and he closes his book, sitting back and hugging his knees to his chest. He's wearing his own clothes, clean and warm, track pants and the same white t-shirt he'd had on when he'd first showed up, like a scene out of a movie. If things were different, or if it was two weeks from now, two days even, then Scott might have been able to stand up right away, to cross the room and knot up the front of Isaac's shirt and pull him forward and... hold him, maybe? He might have been ready to invite Isaac to sleep next to him.

If Scott breathes in through his nose, really inhales, he can smell Allison's shampoo. Just a trace, just there on the edge of Isaac's scent, Scott's body wash. It's all amazingly comforting, those three scents, co-mingling. He wonders if Isaac thinks the same or even notices.

Scott's definitely not going to ask.

\--

After dinner, they hang out in Scott's room. His door is half-open and they can both hear Scott's mom downstairs, talking on the phone, occasionally moving between the living room and the kitchen.

They're finishing their homework. Scott is basically done, but he's reading ahead, and every once in a while one of them will repeat a line they overhear from the television downstairs. “It's not all written down,” Isaac quotes.

Scott replies, “And why is that?”

“In my head. Safer there.”

“Then I suggest you pick up a pen,” Scott says, and Isaac spins in Scott's desk chair and throws the pen he's been holding at him. Scott catches it, easy as anything, and slides it under his thigh. “You just lost your pen privileges.”

“Dude!” Isaac laughs.

“Sorry, man,” Scott kids, and Isaac is out of the chair in a flash, Scott's bed creaking under their combined weight, the force with which Isaac sits down, bowing forward so that Scott draws back. He's still grinning, but that feeling in his chest he can't identify is back.

“Give it,” Isaac demands. His eyes are sly and wild.

“Take it,” Scott exhales, and he reaches for Isaac, ends up with a handful of his sleeve. It's enough to make Isaac lose his balance, and he tips forward, and their chests collide and they're both breathing fast, deep, and Isaac crushes his lips against Scott's.

Scott pulls back, away, and Isaac moves in, kisses him again and this time Scott kisses back, just quickly. It's barely anything. Scott had kissed Stiles with more enthusiasm when they were eight years old and didn't know what the fuck they were doing, only it seemed to make their parents laugh.

Melting, Scott thinks. This is what melting feels like.

Isaac closes the gap between their mouths again, all seriousness now, brushing his lips over Scott's experimentally, then melting. Their mouths slot together, break apart, and Scott's free hand is somehow in the small of Isaac's back, hitching him up closer, spreading his own thighs, making room for Isaac to kneel between them.

Isaac holds himself up with one hand, the other palming the side of Scott's neck. They kiss again, linger a little longer, and Scott closes his eyes for the first time. Neither make a sound. Isaac's tongue ventures forward, barely, the tip swiping Scott's and a wave of something much less confusing rolls over Scott, through him.

There are lots of kisses after that.

When Isaac finally pulls back, sitting on his calves, a dazed expression on his face, he waves the pen at Scott.

Scott breathes out slowly. “I'm sorry,” he says. Now that they aren't kissing, he feels kind of guilty. Isaac is vulnerable. He's seeking solace. He needs Scott. Scott shouldn't take advantage of that.

However much he might want it, want him. Even if Isaac wants it, too, and Scott thinks he does, because the way Isaac looks at him... Only one other person has ever looked at Scott like that, at least that he's noticed. Not like he's everything, but like he's something. Something incredibly important.

Except now Isaac is giving him a funny look, and Scott realizes several seconds have passed. “I didn't mean it,” Scott says. “I'm not sorry. I just don't—”

“Think it's a good idea,” Isaac finishes for him, and Scott feels like there's water slowly filling up his lungs or something. “I get it,” Isaac says, and climbs off the bed. He doesn't quite get back to Scott's desk, but hovers instead, hands in his pockets, like he doesn't know if he should sit back down or leave altogether.

“No,” Scott says quietly, sitting up, absently swiping the back of his hand across his lips. “I don't want you to do something you're gonna regret just because you feel like—”

“Like I have to? Like I owe you?”

Scott swallows. Somehow, this is going all wrong. He looks up at Isaac but he can't lock eyes with him because Isaac is looking everywhere else. Scott's door, the posters on his wall, the carpet.

Isaac says, “You kissed me back.”

He sure did. “I wanted to,” Scott confesses.

“But you don't want to now.”

“Not exactly.”

“I'm not stupid,” Isaac says. He finally meets Scott's gaze, his own a challenge. “I'm not going to do anything I don't want to. I'm not trying to punish myself, and I'm not made of glass.”

\--

It's Sunday morning. The sky is still dark, and Scott opens his eyes to the sound of his mom picking up her car keys. The front door opens and closes. Her car starts and pulls out onto the street.

Scott slides out of bed, goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth. Collects some things—which is definitely the weirdest part this process, because he feels like he's assuming too much, or not enough, something. But, whatever happens, he can't be unprepared. That would be worse, having to get up and walk back here. He might lose his nerve. He might do that now. He gets himself ready anyway.

His fingers are nice. He's become intimately acquainted with them recently. When he's finished, he moves silently down the hall to Isaac's room. 

The room Isaac is staying in, he means. Just for now. The guest room. He supposes Isaac does qualify as a guest.

The door is open, just a crack. Scott pretends to knock and the gap widens. He can hear Isaac's shallow breathing, his heartbeat. He can hear that he's awake and sense that he's been waiting.

He enters the room to find Isaac half-lying down, propped up on his elbows. His hair is messier than Scott's. “Scott,” he says.

“Mm.”

Isaac stares at him, then kind of scoffs. “Please,” he says. “Just...”

Scott moves to the edge of the bed. He drops the tiny bottle of lube and a condom on the comforter, and Isaac eyes them, blowing out slowly. This part is easy, Scott thinks, no different to any other time he's done it. It's magnetism and bodies, skin and flesh chemistry, friction, slickness, gravitation, and he's already got a hard-on from fingering himself. He climbs over Isaac and Isaac drops back onto the pillows.

Scott opens Isaac's mouth with his, pushes his tongue forward, slightly. Isaac's hands slide up and over Scott's bare shoulders, one finding its way into Scott's hair, the other scratching his shoulder blades lightly. Scott is on top but Isaac is controlling the kiss and Scott lets him, for now, following his lead, giving him what he needs or wants. Either. Both.

Things get heated and heavy pretty quickly after that. Scott hadn't really known how much he wanted this until now, and it settles over him, warm, the truth of the fact that he wants Isaac. He wants conversations with him that aren't about who's trying to kill them or what's coming next, he wants sex with him that doesn't come when both of them are fraught and frightened, touching each other to escape reality.

He's desperately horny, though. He doesn't know how long it's been for Isaac, but Isaac's definitely as hard as Scott is. Scott hovers, his body poised inches above Isaac's and their dicks are touching through Scott's boxers, the sheets. Scott moves, enough to drag his length down Isaac's and Isaac hisses in a breath. “Inside me,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” Scott is kissing Isaac's neck now. His first time kissing a part of Isaac that isn't his mouth. It seems more notable, somehow, than the fact that their dicks are rubbing together.

“Can you fuck me?” Isaac murmurs, barely louder than a sigh. “Is that... something you can do?”

“I think so,” Scott says. “Yeah.” He pushes himself up so that he can see Isaac's face. They have no problem looking each other in the eyes now. “But not today.”

“No?” Isaac sounds dismayed.

“No.” Scott drops down again, kisses Isaac's bottom lip, his chin, then the skin under it. His collarbone. The top of his chest. The dip between the slats of his ribcage. His stomach. He's naked under the sheets. Scott shifts, ridding himself of his boxers before sitting back on his calves. He picks up the condom, opens it, and Isaac looks confused for the handful of seconds it takes Scott to roll it onto Isaac's dick, which is bigger than anything Scott's had inside him, but he's fairly certain he can handle it; he's been fucking himself for months, with his hand, sometimes with a toy Allison had bought back when they were together and rarely vanilla in bed.

Isaac looks at Scott like he's a miracle when he slicks his fingers with lube. Scott feels more like a depraved, soon to be debauched wreck, but. Perspective. He reaches around and tests himself, the stretch, biting down on his lip and trying to be quiet because he knows that in about thirty seconds all hopes of that are going to fly right out the window.

He straddles Isaac's hips and Isaac manages a, “Jesus,” and a choked off, “fuck,” before Scott bends down and kisses him again, holding the base of Isaac's dick with one hand. Everything is slippery and it takes a couple of tries to get them lined up perfectly, and then he's bearing down, the dull ache, the faint burn both familiar and brand new. Isaac's hands slide up Scott's sides. “Scott. Oh my god, Scott.”

“Shh.” Scott leans back, hands braced on Isaac's thighs. He rides Isaac slow for several long minutes, looking at him sometimes, closing his eyes now and then, just concentrating on feeling it, feeling Isaac, the pleasure snaking and spiraling up Scott's spine, squeezing tight. At some point, Isaac fumbles with the bottle of lube, wraps a slick fist around Scott's dick, stroking him evenly, matching Scott's own rhythm. “Ah—” Scott gasps.

That's it, right there. That's the angle. Scott arches back, one hand on the mattress now, between Isaac's thighs, supporting him. He rolls his hips, faster, slower, just like that. He can make himself come like this, barely needs to touch his dick, but Isaac's hand is tight and still now, holding Scott's orgasm off. “Isaac,” Scott says. Or sobs. Either way it's needy and low.

“Shit, Scott.” Isaac pumps up, deep in Scott, deeper than Scott knew he could take, and Scott can tell Isaac is coming when his thrusts go uneven and clumsy and his hands drop to his sides to twist up the sheets. Scott strokes himself once, twice, and releases all over Isaac's chest.

The sky through the cracks in the curtains is lavender when Isaac drags Scott down into his own mess.

\--

The rest of Sunday is spent in a lazy fog. There's more TV and pizza and a lot of making out on the couch. When Scott talks to Stiles, Stiles says he sounds weird, and Scott apologizes, because Isaac has his legs draped across Scott's lap and he's still sad, Scott knows, he's brimming with it. But there's also a kind of warm halo around him, an aura of calm that Scott wouldn't shatter for anything in the world, and right now, that means not telling Stiles what's happening between them before they've assigned a name to it.

Scott's not even thinking about labels. He's thinking of everything but.

He's thinking about school tomorrow and how the twins will be there.

He's thinking about Allison and the way she'd smiled at him and the way she'd smiled at Isaac.

About how long Isaac's fingers are, closing around Scott's wrist, rubbing circles into the soft skin on the underside.

“How long can this last?” Isaac asks, vaguely, when the playlist they've been spacing out to ends.

After a pause, Scott settles on, “As long as we make it.”


End file.
